The Feared and Unknown
by Nightmare Alley
Summary: [Severitus, HBP compliant] “The path to darkness, Mr. Potter, is a long and treacherous journey. One does not become evil with a revelation similar to the flicking of a muggle light switch.”
1. Chapter I

AN: Yep, another Severitus fic (eventually…). If everything comes out as planned, this should be as original as a Severitus can be.

This is post-OotP and the ships **will** be canon (HG, RHr). There is no: abuse, slash, angst, loveable-father!Snape, character bashing, or evil/dark!Harry. I'm trying to keep this canon as possible.

I give thanks to E. M. Pink who helped organize my ideas—read her work, she's awesome!

_Standard disclaimers apply._

* * *

Harry stared bleakly into the storm sweeping over Privet Drive in unrelenting torrents, creating an eerie silver haze over the black road. It had been two weeks of boredom and misery staying with the Dursleys—his relatives were too scared to say anything to him, let alone do anything entertaining.

Unfortunately, Harry's days were spent performing various chores while the rest of them sat on their rumps watching the television. If he wasn't cleaning, mowing, trimming the garden or whatever else Petunia could think of, Harry tried to get his summer homework done. This, of course, was nearly impossible, because he hardly had a minute to himself at a time.

If he had ever had time to do homework, it would be in the dead of the night, when he was already too exhausted to do much of anything other than get some shut eye--which, of course, never amounted to much. His dreams were of Sirius and Cedric falling to their demise, and of a cold, high-pitched voice telling him there would be so many more deaths to come, and Harry would wake up as though he had never gone to sleep in the first place.

Harry tried his best to completely forget about anything concerning Sirius, but no matter how far away he tucked the memory of his godfather, he could always feel that nagging guilt tugging at his every action, his every thought.

Rubbing his face with his hands, Harry returned to his bed thinking of Ron and Hermione. They were together at the Headquarters with Mrs. Weasley and Professor Lupin, having loads of fun together no doubt. He sent the letters to the Order every three days as he was told, though they were usually very short and to the point. Occasionally, Harry would ask about Voldemort's plans, but that about did as much good as Lockhart's teaching methods.

Suddenly, the doorbell echoed piercingly throughout the quiet house, and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Dudley! It's Princess!" Vernon bellowed up the stairs.

Harry snorted and leaned back into his bed; Princess was the girl Vernon had _paid_, because he was worried ickle-Dinkydums didn't have enough female attention.

Dudley had been much quieter than the year before and shut himself in his room almost as often as Harry did; Harry heard him mumbling about his former victims in his sleep more than once. Petunia had talked Vernon into letting Dudley start visiting a shrink, but they might as well have paid a stranger to stare at the boy, because Dudley never said a word.

Then, Vernon had watched some show on the telly about how most men Dudley's age had already had several relationships. Vernon, of course, became worried as there hadn't been a single woman who'd even thought of dating Dudders. To give his son a hint, Vernon showed him a few videos and magazines he'd kept hidden from Petunia. Finally, frustrated, Vernon had decided to call Princess and bribe her into dating his son.

Harry found himself wondering exactly _how much_ Vernon had paid Princess, because she was actually quite pretty, despite her revolting name. Harry doubted she would touch someone like Dudley, who not only had a lousy personality, but still had to use two chairs in the kitchen to satisfy his bulk and his four chins jiggled with every move.

Harry, of course, had wondered out of his room to watch, but still kept out of sight.

Princess strutted in with a smirk towards Dudley, whose eyes were wide and hungry, following her bum as she walked past him and into the kitchen. Petunia had made a huge dinner—if Dudley's eating habits didn't scare the girl off, Harry didn't know what would.

The dinner was surprisingly uneventful, Harry thought. Petunia would politely inquire of her life at home—what her parents did for a living, who her parents were, the usual. Vernon made several crude connotations that had Harry gagging at the foot of the stairs.

As Petunia headed up for bed (Harry had quickly ducked behind a recliner), Vernon offered the couple a 'spot of whiskey', which apparently meant a large cup to Harry's uncle. Princess politely declined, but Dudley, nervous about looking like a wimp, downed the cup in one large gulp, and proceeded to toss back another cup as well.

"That's m'boy!" Vernon declared cheerily, slapping Dudley on the back.

Vernon then chose to wait about ten minutes, telling various golf jokes and making the couple feel awkward, before heading up to bed with Petunia. That was when Dudley decided to make a complete arse of himself.

"Your brea—hair's so—so pretty," Dudley mumbled, staring directly at the girl's chest. A bit of a ditz, the girl giggled and thanked him. She commented on his large muscles and manly chest, to which Dudley smirked.

Harry, at a cross between finding the situation hilarious and finding it sickening, quickly retreated upstairs to his room and shut the door before he was caught. After passing Hedwig an owl treat, Harry went to bed, doing his best impression of Occlumency to simultaneously get his mind off of pig-like cousins and their girlfriends, as well as his friends and his deceased godfather. His efforts succeeded, luckily, and he was fast asleep within the hour.

Not much later, however, Harry was woken from his sleep by a loud thumping noise. The wall neighboring Dudley's was shaking, and a few books had been knocked to the floor.

"Is it impossible to get some sleep in this stupid house?" Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes, longing for the warm, four-poster beds back in his Hogwarts dormitory.

_Thump. Thump—_

"Oh, Dudley!"

Harry's mouth fell open in disgust, and he hastily tried to block out the sound with a pillow. However, when he heard a loud moan and a shrill voice crying "Harder!", that was when he called it quits.

"Urgh!" Harry said to himself, shoving the pillow away, his nose wrinkling as though he smelled something funny.

Didn't Vernon or Petunia hear it? Or were they pretending not to care?

Aggravated and revolted, Harry got dressed and snatched his wand, shoving it in his back pocket, and quickly left his room. He had half a mind to cast _Silencio_ as he passed Dudley's door, where the noises were clearer and sounded much more disgusting…

Harry shook his head again, and stomped angrily down the stairs, slamming the front door behind him.

It had stopped raining, thankfully, and the street was eerily silent. Harry tucked his hands in his pockets as he crossed Magnolia Crescent towards the opposing sidewalk, more slowly now, having calmed considerably since he left the Dursleys.

Harry heard footsteps following him at a fast pace; he could hear the trainers thumping on the ground and slightly hitched breathing, as though the person hadn't noticed Harry had left until moments afterward and had to chase after him.

"Psst! Harry!" Said a voice, distinctly feminine; Harry guessed it was Tonks. He ignored her, and kept moving, swiftly turning into an alley he knew all too well, and then doubling back into a small, often overlooked crack between two buildings. The crack was partially hidden by a large, rancid dumpster that had partially decayed on one end, with trash spilling out its side. The stench had been intensified by the rain, and Harry covered his mouth to keep himself from choking.

It was where Harry usually disappeared when Dudley was 'Harry Hunting' when they were children; it would always effectively lose Dudley—and even if he were to find it, He would be too large to fit through.

If, thought Harry, his plan worked, he'd lose Tonks and be free the rest of the night—or at least until Dudley would surely be finished. Harry grimaced again at the thought of it. Surely Vernon wouldn't allow him at it all night…?

He didn't quite know why he didn't just let Tonks catch him—surely she wouldn't send him right back if Harry explained himself. But he felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to be free of everything: the Dursleys, the Order, the prophecy…at least for a little while.

Disregarding Tonks's pleas for him to 'come out before she got in trouble', Harry squeezed through the crack, his chest constricted by the close walls. Harry breathed a sigh of relief when he made it out on the other side, feeling a vague sense of pride at succeeding.

His pride, however, was short-lived.

"Oh, _fuck,_" Harry murmured, staring at the Dark Mark hovering in the sky, looming over him menacingly. Slowly, quietly, Harry tried backing away before he was spotted, but it was too late.

He abruptly saw a jet of red light speeding towards him before he passed out, his head making a loud crack against the sidewalk.

* * *

When Harry awoke, he gasped in pain. There were stars before his eyes, and his head throbbed painfully. He felt very much like the back of his head had been clobbered with a sledgehammer or something similar. Gingerly, Harry reached up to touch the throbbing wound and promptly pulling it back as a pleasantly warm, sticky substance met his fingers.

With trepidation, Harry summoned his strength and pulled himself into a sitting position. He was sitting in a small, cramped dungeon, complete with rusty chains and shackles on the ceiling and a rickety table to the side. Harry looked in the far corner, where a small hole had been dug into the ground, already full of excrement.

_Typical_, Harry thought to himself, wrinkling his nose at the stench.

Footsteps echoed through the hallway, and Harry snapped his head towards the door.

"Good, the lil' blighter's awake," said a man cheerily, waving a ring of keys around on his finger on one hand and holding a worn, black briefcase in the other.

Harry eyed him warily; his hair was, if possible, greasier than Snape's and his mouth stretched over his large, horse-like teeth. His appearance, frankly, made him look a little off his rocker, and Harry wasn't sure he wanted to get to know the man.

"The Mighty One," Harry assumed this was yet another pretentious-sounding nickname for Voldemort, "has given me permission to do what I like with you."

"Oh?" Replied Harry, feeling rather desperate to have the comfort of his wand back in his hand. "And who are you, exactly?"

The Death Eater puffed out his chest slightly, and said, "Barnaby Dougall—and I'll make sure you say my name while you scream."

"Er, that's really not necessary," Harry replied, backing away as the man went through the keys slowly, as though purposefully trying to build the Gryffindor's anxiety. Harry truly doubted whether the man was all that powerful simply due to his seemingly stupid manner, but without his wand or anywhere to run, the boy was powerless against him. Also, Voldemort had trusted him for some reason…

Dougall had found the key--it was a large, old-fashioned, silver one reminding Harry strangely of the key he'd captured from the ceiling in his first year--and entered the dungeon cell, locking the door behind him.

"Why didn't you just use Alohomora?" Harry asked, really wishing that Dougall wasn't in such close proximity.

Dougall glared at Harry as though he were brainless. "Because it doesn't work on those locks," he answered simply. He slammed his briefcase on the table, while Harry gritted his teeth, bringing forth all the anger he could muster in an attempt to release 'accidental' magic. Predictably, this didn't work one bit to Harry's annoyance.

Dougall pulled out several potions of various colors and textures. He tapped his chin, snatching the black potion with a thick, chunky consistency.

"I'm not drinking that," stated Harry, crossing his arms and leaning on the far wall. His head wound was beginning to be a problem again—Harry could feel the blood pooling slowly at the base of his neck—but he refused to show his weakness to the Death Eater before him.

Dougall grinned insidiously. "You'll take it or I'll make you—and trust me, the roundabout way is no fun...for you, anyhow."

"So is that what you do then?" Harry asked, attempting to buy time, "Make potions? Isn't that Snape's job?"

"Snape makes the potions," said Dougall and he grinned, "I torture the prisoners."

"Sounds… pathetic. What, you couldn't get a girlfriend?" Harry retorted, but he had wavered slightly and felt extremely light-headed. The blood was running down his back, now, and his shirt clung to it.

"Silencio," Dougall said lazily. "I hope you enjoy this one; it completely strips you of any magical properties, effectively making you a squib. The Mighty One didn't want me to use this potion—says he wanted to duel you properly—but I'm sure he'll come around…"

Harry hadn't heard a word he said—something about squibs—as he struggled to stay conscious. He focused his eyes on the Death Eater, however, and attempted to listen.

"A few drops should do it," Dougall murmured, walking over towards Harry with a glint in his dark eyes. "Will you participate?"

Harry refused to answer. If he said no, he'd have to take it anyway, as he was too weak and tired to fight off the _Imperious_…but his pride wouldn't let him consent to the Death Eater's wishes, anyway.

"Open wide," Dougall murmured, tipping Harry's head back (his fingers dangerously close to his thumping injury), and forcing Harry's mouth open. Too weak to resist and his mind feeling too numb to care, Harry allowed the Death Eater to pour the thick, black liquid into his mouth.

Harry certainly wasn't expecting the effects to be so immediate. His throat felt as though he'd just downed acid, and the agonizing burning feeling spread through his intestines, his stomach—and up to his skull, underneath his eyelids, through his brain.

Hecried out and bucked backwards, his already injured head contacting with the jagged, stony wall behind him—and everything went black.

* * *

Review, please! Constructive criticism and suggestions are especially lovely. 


	2. Chapter II

AN: This chapter was a tad more difficult than I thought it'd be…sorry. I have no excuse other than frustration at its worst.

Thanks for all of the lovely reviews, and I'm really very sorry I took practically half a century to finish this chapter…

Also note that I changed the title and the summary. I apologize for any confusion.

* * *

Harry hissed quietly with pain in the darkness as he tried to shift his weight. He was, rather unfortunately, suspended from the ceiling and huge, rusted iron manacles had cut painfully into his wrists. Harry's arms had fallen asleep long ago with the loss of blood circulation and he did his best to jostle them, but there was little he could do other than try to ride it out. 

The infection on the back of his head had steadily worsened—of course, it's not as if the Death Eaters would go out of their way to provide health care, nor was the place necessarily hygienic—therefore, Harry spent the next couple of days alternating in and out of consciousness, shivering and with a fever, while his laceration produced ugly yellowish gunk. He knew he wouldn't die—only Voldemort could kill him—but that didn't keep him from worrying that he'd get knocked out, completely vulnerable, and wake up with a few severed limbs.

And it certainly didn't help matters that it was so dark he couldn't see _anything_, there was something foul dripping on his head (which probably helped contribute to the infection, actually), and monstrous rats the size of small dogs would brush against his feet, nipping at his grimy toes. Harry wouldn't have put it past the Death Eaters to have removed his shoes purely for this reason…Needless to say, he was in a very sour mood.

Harry scowled further as he heard distant footsteps. Was it Dougall?

"…said he didn't understand…no reaction…" Mumbled a voice down the corridor. Harry craned his neck in a vain attempt to hear better.

"My potions never fail," said the other simply—with some unidentifiable emotion in his voice—and he paused, continuing with a tone akin to exasperation. "Lucius, must you follow me around like a lost puppy?"

_It's Snape, he's come to get me out, _Harry thought hopefully.

"I'm just here to monitor your…techniques."

"You and I both know that my 'techniques' have nothing to do with you tagging along." Snape replied testily. "I assure you, however, that I've been waiting to be granted this opportunity for years, and nothing will get in my way. Understood?"

"Of course, Severus," Lucius answered.

Harry shivered slightly. _He's just bluffing…He wouldn't—_

"Ah, Mr. Potter, what a pleasant surprise," said Snape as he reached Harry's cell. He smiled nastily at Harry's bleeding wrists. "What a dreadful predicament. We may have to remove your hands soon. I daresay, you won't be quite so adept with a wand if you had no hands, would you?"

"Apparently, I won't be 'quite so adept with a wand' anyhow." Harry retorted, although his voice was weak and that simple statement caused him to cough harshly, racking his body and making his chest burn with pain. _Why the hell does it hurt to talk?_ Harry wondered briefly, but Snape had started to speak again.

"True." Snape said shortly, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Tell me, how _did_ you enjoy that potion, Potter?"

"It was lovely," Harry rasped, but he didn't trust his lungs enough to continue further. In hindsight, he also didn't think it would be the best time to tease Snape, considering his predicament…

"Did you feel any different afterwards?" Snape continued, a peculiar expression on his face.

"No," Harry answered. Snape looked slightly relieved about something, and Harry said, "Was I supposed to feel any different?"

Snape, however, remained silent and unlocked the door. Harry's eyes subconsciously followed his every movement as he withdrew his wand and advanced towards him, looking carefully emotionless.

"I thought you just made potions," Harry said as he stared at the man's wand, trying his best to calm his heart that was beating frantically with panic. Again, Harry's voice had been croaky, and he wasn't sure whether your throat or lungs would be affected by a head infection or not.

"Oh, let's just say that in light of the situation," Snape smiled, "I _changed my mind."_

Was this just a show for Lucius? Harry could see no flicker of, well, _anything,_ in Snape's face. He held his breath as Snape drew nearer, his thin wand directed at Harry's head with a cold smirk on his face—and Harry knew then that Snape, spy or not, fully intended to exact his revenge on him. Harry saw not even a single spark of hesitation recognizant in Snape's face as a single word slipped from his mouth:

"_Crucio."_

Harry yelled out, gritted his teeth and dug his nails into his palms as the mind-numbing shock of pain reverberated through his body. Snape finally relinquished with a cold smirk present on his face as Harry glared at him weakly, shivering.

"Again?"

Harry tried to answer, but all that came out was a slight whisper; all his screaming had taken away his voice. He instead closed his mouth and scowled hatefully, showing his fury with Snape for torturing him, and anger towards himself for being unable to handle the Cruciatus without a scream. His cheeks even felt wet, and Harry severely hoped he hadn't _cried_...

Severus cast the Cruciatus about two more times, as well as threw a few curses that felt like, to Harry, being lashed with a whip. Angry red welts crisscrossed over his chest and back, and blood leaked from Harry's mouth. Harry's eyes had watered each time from the sting of each hit, but he refused them the pleasure of seeing him cry again. His body felt pleasantly numb by this point now, though, and Harry dimly wondered whether he wanted to feel anything ever again.

Snape had stopped with Harry's 'punishment' to talk with Lucius, but Harry couldn't find himself caring. He nodded away for a few moments, head resting on his chest, when suddenly, his head jerked up as a slight twinge in his forehead. Harry squeezed his eyes shut—_Please don't say it's him—_he thought, but as the barely-there twinge grew into a sharp, white-hot throbbing ache over his scar, he _knew_ that Voldemort was coming.

_Bloody hell, haven't I gone through enough today?_ Harry thought briefly, skewing up his face as though it would lessen the ache in his forehead. He already thought he heard heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor, the long strides that could only belong to Tom Riddle.

Snape peered out into the dark hallway, as though surprised. Lucius had already stooped to the floor, and Snape quickly did the same, his greasy locks of hair falling into his face. They bowed there a few moments when Harry saw, his brow furrowing in consternation as he tried to ignore the pain in his scar, a tall, thin shadow crossing the path of the dim glow of light.

"Severus, Lucius, you may stand," said a cold, high-pitched voice that made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand on end.

Voldemort stepped into Harry's line of view with a smirk present on his face.

"Hello, Potter. It appears we meet again."

Harry grimaced, but didn't bother to attempt to say anything, and squirmed slightly under Voldemort's scrutiny. He felt slightly self-conscious; his shirt had been removed somewhere amidst Snape's session, and it wasn't as if Harry had a body to show off. For all his bravery, he looked positively waiflike and pale.

"How are you enjoying the dungeons? I have been told that it's quite…drafty."

The Death Eaters chuckled softly as though he had just told a joke, but Harry couldn't see why a drafty room would induce laughter. Voldemort then moved towards Harry and ran a long, thin finger down the boy's face. Harry closed his eyes and held back a disgusted shudder, resisting the urge to spit at the man.

"Dougall informed me that you are quite a fun one to torture, and quite a good tool for relieving tension. Unfortunately, he overstepped his limits by ignoring my requests…you won't be seeing him anymore. But he did offer me quite a few particularly…_pleasurable_ suggestions, one of them involving the Dark Mark. The Dark Mark is very excruciating to receive, and even more so to keep. I think it would be an excellent idea to…brand you," Voldemort said, as Harry's head jerked up, face blanched and mouth slightly gaping. _He wouldn't—_

"You would feel a disgust at having your enemy's mark on your person, I'm sure—after all, you'd be an official Death Eater, but not a willing one. Just imagine the look on Dumbledore's face, were he to look upon your bare arm, his Golden Gryffindor's arm, and see the mark of the Dark Lord!"

Harry shook his head rapidly, trying to signify that he _definitely_ didn't want the Dark Mark, although he didn't think Voldemort would be one to appeal to his request…

As expected, Voldemort merely grinned and pointed at the boy's arm. "Don't worry, Potter, it shouldn't hurt for too long…

"_Mortis Macula!"_

Harry gasped and severely wished his other hand was free just so he could hold his arm, which felt slightly like someone had plunged a large knife into it and twisted. Harry stared at his arm in horror, watching the Dark Mark slowly appear on his arm, as though some invisible pen drew the grotesque figure. When it was finished, Harry merely stared at the emblem—a skull with a snake protruding out its mouth—feeling dismayed and slightly in shock. It had the shiny appearance of a new tattoo, and the marking stood out clearly on Harry's pale flesh.

And even worse, Harry's could feel his connection with Voldemort strengthen—he suddenly noticed a wave of emotions and thoughts and knowledge being fed to him from Voldemort. The Dark Lord, Harry suddenly knew, was immensely surprised about this revelation, but simultaneously pleased that he could induce such horror within the young Gryffindor.

And Harry soon knew most of what Voldemort knew, despite the man's efforts block Harry from the deeper recesses of his mind. Harry, subconsciously, took advantage of this situation and quickly delved further into the Dark Lord's life—the orphanage, talking with Dumbledore for the first time, his first day at Hogwarts, a conversation with a fat man named Horace Slughorn about something called a Horcrux—

"OUT!" Voldemort bellowed, and Harry instantly found himself back in his own body, his mind spinning rapidly from all the information. There was now a distinct mental wall separating the Dark Lord from Harry Potter—a wall that Harry had no intention to cross. He had learned more dark spells in a few minutes than he normally wouldn't want to touch in a lifetime—he even knew the spell to _skinning _someone _whole…_

"We are done here," Voldemort murmured to Lucius and Severus, who nodded silently, each of them carefully suppressing their emotions.

Panting and staring fixedly at the floor, Harry refused to look up. He was revolted with himself—he didn't want this knowledge or the tiny voice in the back of his head that persistently claimed that this information may help him one day.

The lamp that Severus left behind grew dim, and soon left Harry and his thoughts alone in the darkness.

* * *

Review, please! I'd really appreciate it if some of you would offer some suggestions—and you'd _help_ me by telling me what I'm doing wrong. Feel free to Britpick, point out grammar/spelling mistakes, or anything you want. I still feel like I'm lacking…substance in my writing, for lack of a better word, so if there are any tips you guys have to offer, I'd be eternally grateful. 

Later this week I'll be editing the first chapter, just for your information.


	3. Chapter III

AN: I love you guys! Thanks for all of the encouraging reviews :o)

Firstly, I have a couplequestions now that I've got this fic rolling:

1.) Is there anything you guys would like to see in a Severitus fic that, despite the hundreds out there, simply hasn't been covered?

2.) Should the romance HG be more off to the side and irrelevant, or somewhat-centric? I definitely won't make it mostly centric in this story—there's already too much going on.

That's all I have—but if there's some question you want answered that I haven't mentioned, feel free to respond on my Livejournal (listed as my homepage now), PM me, or simply mention it in a review.

* * *

"Wake up, Potter we're leaving." 

"What?" Harry stared blearily at the man before him, his voice rough, but obviously working again. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out and therefore had no idea what time or day it was, he had lost his glasses and his mind felt distant and fuzzy. "Who're you?"

The man sighed angrily and unlocked the chains that bound Harry to the ceiling. Harry fell unceremoniously to the ground, retched slightly, and then rested his scorching face on the cold dungeon floor.

"Up_ now_—"

"But it feels so nice—"

The stranger hefted Harry up to his feet with an exasperated wave of his wand. Harry wavered but soon righted himself, closing his eyes rubbing his right arm irritably. Not only his arm itched—was it the Dark Mark? He couldn't remember which arm exactly—but the rest of him prickled as well. And his legs felt sore, like he had growing pains.

As Harry looked up once more, trying to blink the fuzziness from his eyes, he finally seemed to recognize the stranger with him.

"Pr'fessor Snape? But—you—I thought—"

Snape smirked. "Don't hurt yourself, Potter."

Harry frowned, and decided he didn't care enough to work out what Snape meant, and he couldn't seem to remember why he cared. He was tired and hot, and the ground certainly did look cool and inviting…

"I don't have all day. We need to apparate as soon as we get out of this blasted building—"

"Huh?"

"Are you not listening to a word I say? I'm jeopardizing my _life_…" Snape trailed off, muttering, and gripped Harry's arm, dragging him out of his cell. They walked past several doors, some which Harry was almost sure he heard voices come out of, before he saw a blurry dark shape stop in the hallway—another Death Eater, Harry realized after a few moments, but he didn't know who.

"_Snape?_ What are you—" started the Death Eater. Harry couldn't see the look on his face, but he assumed by the tone of his voice that he was shocked.

"_Stupefy._ Come along, Potter."

"Okay," said Harry noncommittally. "Where are we going again?"

"To Hogwarts, you moronic dunderhead," the man replied, sneering at him as he sped proficiently through the meandering, maze-like hallways as though he knew them as well as his own house, seeming, oddly enough, completely unworried about the prospect of any Death Eater finding him. Harry still struggled to keep up with the man's long strides, but it seemed less hard to do than before, despite his disorientation.

"Oh…why? I thought I would go back to the Dursleys…?" Harry suddenly covered his mouth and doubled over as he coughed, sending aching sensations through his chest. Snape ignored this.

"Clearly, you're either delirious, or completely stupid. You're bleeding; you've got an _infection_ on your _head_, which might damage what little intelligence you possess…"

"Oh. That's good, then." He replied nonchalantly.

Snape stared dubiously at him as they neared the door, and shook his head slowly, drawing a hand towards his temple. "Bloody idiots giving me bloody migraines—" he muttered under his breath. "—Stupid bloody Dumbledore insisting that I save the bloody idiot-who-lived…"

The guards lay on the floor, dead, and by the looks of their swollen skin and the frothy substance leaking out of their mouths, they had been poisoned. Harry stared, as though not quite understanding why anyone would kill them. He also wondered why his vision had improved so much—they still looked unrecognizable and slightly fuzzy, but just a few minutes ago, he could've sworn the Death Eater they'd encountered was a particularly large black dog.

But as Snape opened the door and shoved Harry out, Harry squinted in the sunlight that he hadn't seen for days, wavered and then collapsed unexpectedly, unconscious before he had hit the ground.

* * *

"I don't understand—he still has his magic, and your potion was supposedly infallible—" 

Harry opened his eyes, discovering himself to be in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, under hot stuffy covers in a darker corner of the room. His mind feeling more acute than ever, Harry propped himself up on his elbows and watched the shadows of Madame Pomfrey, Professor Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Minerva McGonagall in a heated discussion.

"Maybe Potter just wasn't affected—he _is_ the Boy-Who-Lived, after all."

"The potion has nothing to do with magic ability," Snape replied, then smirked. "Not that Potter has any, of course. Whether I was to give it to Neville or Dumbledore, two wizards of clearly unequal ability, the potion would affect them in the same way."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore said, "it has to do with the prophecy. Maybe fate intervened."

"I doubt it." Snape scoffed.

"Then what do you suggest, Severus?"

Harry's arms were getting sore; he shifted his weight, wincing as the bed squeaked unexpectedly. Snape didn't answer McGonagall; instead, he swiveled around to glare at Harry, his cloak billowing around him like a dark cloud.

"Eavesdropping, Potter?"

"When people are talking about me, yes," Harry answered, grimacing at his rough voice, which was much deeper than he was used to. Harry blamed it on his still-sore throat, but couldn't shake the feeling that a normal person's voice wouldn't change _that_ much, even with the worst of colds.

"Well, as long as you're awake," said Madame Pomfrey, bustling over to Harry's side. Harry suddenly remembered his Dark Mark, and, feeling ashamed, he hastily attempted to block the grotesque mark from view with a bundle of sheets. He wondered vaguely if Dumbledore saw.

"I've already fixed the worst of it, dear, but you've still got some scarring that I hope to reduce…" Madame Pomfrey sent a scowl towards Snape. "Apparently, _some_ people can't control themselves."

Snape, again, said nothing; he merely swept out of the dungeon, an emotionless mask on his face. Harry watched him go; his thoughts about the man were still muddled. So did the man torture him just for show, or was it because Snape hated him? He knew Ron would agree with the latter while Hermione would most likely agree with the former, but Harry knew both of his friends were irrational when it came to Snape…

"So…" Harry asked with a piqued curiosity. "What, exactly, was the worst of it?"

"Obviously, that nasty cut on your head…you had an alarmingly high fever, a little internal bleeding, several gashes on your chest and back..."

"Poppy, if you please—this can wait." Said Dumbledore, sounding oddly impatient. _Of course, _Harry thought, _he wants me to explain…_

Madame Pomfrey glanced at Dumbledore then turned back towards Harry; as soon as Harry saw her eyes flicker towards his arm, Harry instantly knew what the discussion would be about. He suddenly wished he had the ability to sink into his bed, never to be seen again. He was _marked_ by _Voldemort_…Harry was, whether he wanted to be or not, an official Death Eater.

Harry could recall his dream from after he'd fainted, too; the mere thought of it made Harry shiver, but there was a deep part of him—of Voldemort—that liked it.

Madame Pomfrey had already left while Harry was still lost in his thoughts. Dumbledore pulled up a chair, opened his mouth to speak, but Harry cut across him, blurting out exactly what had been on his mind at the time.

"Every time he relaxes his Occlumency, I can _feel_ bits of him slipping through; his knowledge, his emotions, everything—I can hardly separate my thoughts from _his _anymore."

He wasn't quite sure why he told Dumbledore this, but the man was very…trustable. Dumbledore seemed to remind him more of a grandfather now rather than powerful figure, mostly due to the fact that Harry now knew the older man was actually fallible, sometimes.

Harry wasn't finished, however; with the combination of the need to say it to someone, _anyone,_ and the need to understand it himself, Harry continued, "When I was asleep, I kept dreaming of killing people, torturing children, when I'm awake, I have this wide repertoire of spells and memories that I'd never had before—I can't recall ever stealing yo-yos, or even having an urge to, and yet that memory is there. What if I can't separate what's me from what's him anymore? Even before I got this," Harry gestured towards his arm, "he's always been lurking in my mind. What if I…?" The unspoken question hung in the air: _what if I become like Voldemort?_

"The path to darkness, Mr. Potter, is a long and treacherous journey. One does not become evil with a revelation similar to the flicking of a muggle light switch." Dumbledore smiled reassuringly. "He cannot turn you evil, unless it is what you truly want."

"I don't know what I want anymore," Harry replied. "I don't care about fame or fortune or power…"

"But you do care for your friends, Harry, which is something Voldemort has never known."

"No, he never had friends, did he?"

Dumbledore leaned forward, his pale blue eyes piercing into Harry's. "What all did you see?"

"Enough," Harry answered simply, and looked unwilling to explain further than he already had. Harry abruptly changed the subject. "Sir, what are Horcruxes?"

Dumbledore looked momentarily surprised, but adjusted his glasses and peered over at Harry. "When a wizard kills, it literally rips the soul apart—a wizard who knew what a Horcrux was could use this to his advantage and place the piece, or pieces, of his soul into an object—such as a diary."

Harry quickly caught on to the hint Dumbledore threw at him—"Tom Riddle's diary? That was a Horcrux?"

"I'm almost certain that it was. But, Harry, this is a conversation for another time." Dumbledore smiled again. "Once Madame Pomfrey decides you are good and healthy—"

"In another century or two," Harry muttered.

"—you will continue to stay here at Hogwarts. Voldemort is keeping the area where you were captured under constant supervision—it would not be safe to return you to Privet Drive."

"But I thought it was always safe?"

"It is if you want to stay boarded indoors for two months, but I supposed telling you to do so would definitely be unwise…"

Harry silently agreed—staying indoors with the Dursleys at all times was definitely not a prospect he would enjoy enduring.

"There are only a few teachers who stay here during the summer—Hagrid, Professor Sprout, Professor Snape—"

"Why do you trust him?" Asked Harry abruptly.

"I assume you mean Professor Snape?"

"Yeah. He Crucio'ed me and he _enjoyed _it. And it wasn't required of him to come, he just did."

"He also risked his life to remove you. What he intended, by torturing you in front of another, was to remove any and all suspicions, so that he could remove you with ease. Also, as you and I both know, he does hold grudges—and he _had_ gotten carried away, much to my disappointment. I still trust him, however, and for a very solid reason. I know he would never betray me."

"But _why?"_

"With your curious nature, I'm sure you'll find out eventually—" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, "but it is not my right to tell you."

Harry sighed, but didn't really mind much. As Dumbledore said, he _would_ find out eventually.

Once Harry was released from the hospital wing, Dumbledore told him, he would have his own room to lounge in until the term started. Harry certainly hoped he could reign in his conflicting feelings before the time came.


End file.
